


La bohème

by WhyDoBirdsSingSoGay (ISawYourGhostTonight)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Artist!Crowley, F/M, Fluff, Human AU, Paris in the 1950s, literally listen to the song it's all in there, model!aziraphale, they're poor and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISawYourGhostTonight/pseuds/WhyDoBirdsSingSoGay
Summary: Listen. This is the human artist/model AU no one asked for. So here you goHeavily inspired by La bohème by Aznavour cause I'm trash
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	La bohème

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Chloe for this

Crowley was leaning against the frame of the open window, ignoring the goose bumps from the cold breeze, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The setting sun was staining the blue sky orange and pink. He liked starting his day with a sunset, and finishing it with a sunrise. His rebellious spirit basked in the defiance. That's right, Sun, you're not the boss of me.

The door opened behind him, and he closed the window. Aziraphale hated the cold.

“Good haul, tonight”, she said, her proper english accent tainting her otherwise perfect french.

She had to push aside the clutter of sketches, pencils and paint tubes in order to set a bowl of soup on the table. Crowley looked at her face, her cheeks were pink, her hair in slight disarray. She was smiling. He smiled with her.

“I hope you didn't have to give up your honor for overcooked potatoes and beef, at least” he joked, eyeing her upturned shirt collar.

She giggled and smoothed it out.

“I've done way worse for way less”, she said, mischief in her voice, love in her eyes.

“Oh, like posing naked for a broke artist such as myself?” he drawled, smirking.

“Mmh…” she crossed her arms, putting on a show. “I was actually thinking of that time I stole Dior boots from a lady on the street.”

Crowley barked a laugh and kissed Aziraphale on the cheek. She was always so jolly and playful after a meal.

“Did you eat enough?” Crowley asked anyways, just to be sure.

“Yes, actually. That gentleman wasn't from around here, by the looks of it. He tossed enough money to the bartender for two full bowls. I didn't even have to kiss him.” Pride, satisfaction and joy shone through her rich voice.

Crowley sat down and ate, looking over his sketches from the night before. He picked up a sheet of paper with scribbles and swatches of colours in disarray around a few scratches only his eyes could interpret as the outlines of Aziraphale's body.

“What d'you think of this, angel?”

Aziraphale was laying on the mattress, her neat designer clothes clashing against the mess of linens and blankets. Crowley had to hold up the piece of paper for her to see.

“Oh, it's your lilac flowers idea, right?”

Crowley nodded. It had come to him in a flash the night before, as he was touching up an old painting. He had asked Aziraphale to model for him, although the woman in the painting had nothing to do with her. He had convinced her to abandon her poetry books on the pretense of needing a live model to correct a few lines.

There, in the darkness of their parisian flat, Aziraphale had looked radiant. So much so, in fact, that Crowley had given up on the painting to scribble a few notes, trying to grasp the sudden image that had popped into his mind. Damned be muses and inspiration, Aziraphale was the very heart of his art.

And so, as the sun disappeared below the horizon, and the streets below them grew loud with drunk men, live music and rebellious youth, Aziraphale lay on the hardwood floor, skin glowing with the light from a dozen candles. Crowley sketched all night, listening to Aziraphale recite her favourite poems and telling him about her childhood in gloomy, dreary England.

They grew hungry but they chased the emptiness in their stomach with the sound of their laughter and the weight of their love.

Aziraphale grew tired, and she rested her head on the wall behind her, baring her throat, creating new lines for Crowley to fawn over. The dip of her collarbone, the roundness of her shoulder, the delicate rolls of her stomach. He abandoned the flowers he'd been arranging around her, and modified his sketch. When he drew the tip of her chin, he found himself thanking God for allowing him to behold such beauty. When he corrected the curve of her hip, he found himself wishing someone would shrink him to the size of a mouse so he could lay there forever. When he adjusted the line of her breast, he smiled, eyes fogging with tears.

As soon as he was done, he laid down his pen and looked at Aziraphale, who was half asleep on the hardwood floor.

“I love you, angel”, he said, softly.

Aziraphale's lips turned into a lazy smile before her eyes opened.

“I love you two, my dear.”


End file.
